


Protect the Cub

by Hairy_Lemon



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed 3, Father and Son, Fluff, Gen, kinkmeme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:53:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2151441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hairy_Lemon/pseuds/Hairy_Lemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor is struck down and bleeding, and Haytham finds his cold demeanour giving way before his fatherly instincts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protect the Cub

**Author's Note:**

> A kinkmeme prompt: "I'd really love to see a quiet fluffy father, son moment between Connor and Haytham, with Connor's head resting over Haytham's heart and how Haytham feels in this moment."

Connor didn't see it coming.

Haytham didn't even see it coming; a fact for which he was still berating himself.

The attack had come out of nowhere. One minute he and his son were walking through the back alleys of Boston, and the next Connor was lying on the ground with blood streaming from his temple, and a hulking figure was lifting his truncheon to finish the job.

He never got the chance.

Haytham moved faster than he ever had before, barrelling into the man and slicing his neck open from ear to ear. Blood sprayed out in an arc and the man fell back with a choked gurgle, scrabbling at his neck, trying to stem the flow of blood. A futile attempt.

Haytham did not even spare him a second glance before moving to crouch by Connor.

He was lying sprawled out on the cobbled alleyway, facedown where he fell. Blood was still oozing from the nasty gash that ran from his forehead to his temple, puddling under his head and staining the white of his hood a red so deep it appeared black in the twilight.

Haytham's face was grim as he rolled Connor over, careful to hold his head and neck as still as he could. He had seen men who were moved after suffering such a blow to the head die, or lose control of their limbs; a fate he would ideally not like Connor to suffer.

He cradled Connor's face in his hands and gently felt along the bones of his neck, seeking any sign that the vertebrae had been damaged in the scuffle. Finding none, he turned his attention to Connor's head wound. It would need stitches, and Connor would likely have to spend several days in bed recovering. The faintest smile touched Haytham's lips. If he knew his boy, the order to stay in bed would at best be met with loud protestations and sulks, and at worst, be flat out ignored.

He patted Connor's cheek, "come on boy, wake up."

Connor didn't even stir.

Haytham felt his pulse and, satisfied it was still there, if not as strong as usual, sat back on his heels and surveyed the bulk of his offspring. Connor was a hearty lad; tall, broad-shouldered, and HEAVY. Haytham had few options: the boy needed a doctor as soon as possible. He would have to be carried.

Haytham sat his son up and draped a limp arm around his shoulders. He then hefted Connor up with a grunt and staggered under the extra weight. "You are certainly not starving as an assassin. I suppose I should be grateful to Achilles for that, if nothing else." He muttered.

Carrying Connor as a dead weight taxed Haytham's strength to the maximum, and it was all he could do to make it to the nearest doctor's house. He let go of Connor's arm around his neck to rap smartly on the door, but kept his other around Connor's waist. The lad still had not stirred, and Haytham's worry mounted. He knocked again and gave the door a kick for good measure, impatient at the delay.

"Wh- what is the meaning of this?" The door swung open and a portly old man in a night gown stood in the entrance, holding a candle. "Do you know what time it is, sir?" He spluttered.

Haytham pushed the man aside and carried Connor inside. "At the last call of the Watch it was one o' clock in the morning, and I can assure you that at your age you have little use for beauty sleep." While the little doctor protested vehemently at such brazen behaviour Haytham laid Connor down on the couch.

"Now see here, young man-" he wagged his finger.

Haytham straightened up and glanced cooly at him. "I realise that this is an extreme inconvenience to you, doctor, but as you can see my friend here is hurt." He gestured towards Connor. "We require your services, as this cannot wait. Naturally you will be reimbursed for all your troubles." He reached into his coat pocket and tossed a small pouch onto the table with a promising clink.

The doctor stopped and rubbed his chin, "You'll be paying, eh? At this time of the night my fee is double."

Haytham narrowed his eyes, "You will find the sum more than adequate."

The doctor blanched. "Of course, of course, I did not doubt you, sir." He scurried over to the couch to run nervous hands over Connor, and held his wrist to take his pulse.

The flickering light from the single candle cast shadows over Connor's face, with fine perspiration beading his brow and upper lip, and the blood from his injury leaving heavy runnels over the side of his face. Haytham regarded him grimly, arms crossed and one hand at his chin. He did not need the doctor to know that head wounds were dangerous.

"His pulse is there, sir, but it is not as forceful as it should be for a man his size," the doctor turned to him, "He will need to be moved to a bed where I can tend him, and he can recover." He stood there expectantly, and when Haytham looked at him impassively he coughed and added apologetically, "Rooming him will be an additional fee."

Haytham sighed and tossed a second, smaller pouch next to the first.

Between the two of them they managed to move Connor to a small guest room, undress him, and tuck him under the covers. The doctor lifted Connor's eyelids and also patted Connor on the cheek, trying to coax him to a state of wakefulness with no luck.

"The best I can do for him in this unconscious state is to clean and suture the head wound," he explained. "Once he wakes I can assess his mental state to determine the extent of the damage." He picked up a bottle of sterilising alcohol and doused a clean rag in it. "If anything will wake him, this will."

He pressed the rag to Connor's head and the result was explosive.

Connor's eyes flew open and an arm whipped out to catch the doctor's midriff. The poor man folded to the floor with a startled wheeze, while Connor, running on instinct, tried to leap out of the bed. His feet hit the floor with twin thuds and almost instantly his knees buckled. Haytham darted forward to grab him under the armpits, but was overbalanced by Connor's weight. Down they both went.

Haytham was pinned to the floor by Connor, but he managed to extricate a hand and run it over his son's sweaty forehead.

"Connor?" He queried. "Wake up, lad. You're safe."

Connor groaned softly and slowly shifted his arms, trying to push himself up. The pain from the disinfectant and the following scuffle had left him dizzy and bewildered. With Haytham's steadying hand he managed to sit up, but then slumped over back into Haytham's arms.

 

"Father?" he slurred. "Wh-what happened?"

Haytham cradled Connor in his arms. His child. His son. He missed the chance to watch him grow up. This was all they would ever have. Haytham tightened his grip and spoke softly to the face nestled into his neck, "We were set upon by a footpad, lad. He hit you in the head before either of us were aware of him."

Connor mumbled unintelligibly and Haytham took that as his cue to explain further. "I carried you to a doctor's house where he was treating you before you, er, awoke."

The doctor in question was bent almost double, holding on to the back of a chair and rubbing his belly. He gasped out, "Sir, I must have you know I am unaccustomed to being attacked by people I seek to help. I expect to be suitably compensated for this!"

Haytham, his attention on Connor, merely flapped a hand at him and said, "Yes, yes. It will be seen to."

The doctor grumbled and said, "I still need to stitch his head wound, but this time I would prefer it if you held him in place."

Haytham nodded and turned his head to peer at Connor. "Lad, I need to move you now. The doctor needs to finish treating you." He shifted his grip and tried to stand, but Connor was a dead weight against him. Haytham was too tired for this. It had been a long night and his back was sore. To hell with it. Let the doctor treat Connor where he was.

Haytham leaned back against the side of the bed and with his hands under his armpits, pulled Connor so he was bracketed by his knees, and lying on his chest. The doctor set to work quickly, with only an occasional flinch and grunt from Connor, and when he was done he rummaged in his black case for a little white bottle.

"This will help him sleep easily tonight, with no dreams." He said, mixing two drops of the pale liquid with water. "Give him this to sip over the course of the next 10 minutes, and then put him to bed. I will be back in the morning to examine him again."

The doctor shut his bag with a snap and closed the door behind him, leaving father and son alone.

Haytham lifted the glass and coaxed a few mouthfuls into Connor. "That's the way, good lad." He encouraged. Connor turned his head away when Haytham lifted the glass to his lips again, and instead burrowed into Haytham's warmth with a shiver.

Haytham, noting the chill of the night, set down the glass and stretched his arm up to awkwardly tug the blankets and pillows off the bed. He draped them over Connor and himself, and stuffed a pillow behind his own head. Connor seemed quite content to use him as a pillow, and Haytham had no intention of waking up with a stiff neck the next morning.

Connor lifted his head on a wobbly neck and tried to speak, but was immediately shushed by Haytham. "Go to sleep, everything is alright." And with that reassurance, Connor lay his head back down over Haytham's heart, and his breathing slowed and deepened into sleep.

Haytham lay there in the dark room listening to the soft sound of his son's breath. He was a heavy, and yet comforting weight, sprawled against him, and Haytham felt a surge of, what? Love? No, not love. But the intense desire to shield. To protect. To keep safe what was his and Ziio's. He ran his hand gently through Connor's hair and rested it on the back of his neck. His eyes slowly closed, and father and son slept.


End file.
